


cold-blooded & perfect

by peachyteabuck



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/F, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: In a move less orthodox than your father, Lagertha invades a country expecting to raid it, but instead merely takes its princess – you. While you’re surprised, you’re not necessarily unhappy with her sudden change of heart.





	cold-blooded & perfect

The Vikings invade your homeland with fire in their eyes and bloodlust on their tongues. The small, untrained army assigned to protect your country is defeated in a matter of minutes, those left with heartbeats either taken captive for later use or killed when they drop their swords. Your father, still in his most lavish robes from the festivities the night before, is forced out to the capital’s center with his hands up and his spine perpendicular to the sharp blade of one of their savage warriors.

From your place in your unscathed room, far up in the vast castle, you anxiously watch the exchange between the leaders. It’s there, as your eyes follow your father’s footsteps, that you notice the rest of the army fathering round him like flies swarm an almost-deceased rabbit; nearly vibrating with excitement, unable to stop their twitchy movements as they circle his shaking form.

While your country is small, its position lining the ocean shore makes it a necessary siege on the pathway to the more inwards parts of the continent. You’ve known this all your life, you know your father has known this for all of his, and you know the foreigners’ leader knows this now.

You can’t quite understand how this woman, this woman decked in the same armor as her underlings, has climbed her way to the top of whatever hierarchy they’ve formed. You can tell she’s powerful though, can tell she isn’t afraid to grasp whole worlds in her hands. As she speaks to your father, the small smirk her lips have twisted themselves into manipulates your insides in a way you cannot describe, and do not try to begin to.

“So,” she asks him, words choppy and accented and curious. “You are king here?”

Like those loyal to her, she circles him. Unlike the rest of them, though, she is not waiting for the creature to give up. Oh, never would she miss the chance to take down anyone who stood in her pathway to victory, to gold, to whatever it is she craves. Her bright teeth remind you of a she-wolf, and your father’s trembling body reminds you of an injured goat.

“Yes,” he answers truthfully. His works shake worse than his limbs as she replies to his numerous questions.

“And do you value the protection of your people?”

Your father gulps but stands a little straighter. “Of course. God gave me the crown to serve Him as well as my people.”

The woman shrugs and leans on her sword, with its sharped point in the ground and the handle covered by her hands. “You know, I’ve heard a lot about your god, you single, individual god,” the women and men behind her chuckle, but she remains stoic. “Does this _god_ accept sacrifices?”

“He sacrificed his Son for us, and in turn we sacrifice for Him, to show our love and appreciation,” your father speaks lowly, words more confident and steadier. The rehearsed string of sentences flowing easily from his lips, and you roll your eyes and pull away from the window. The king, your father, the ruler of your country, the father of your motherland, is no holy man. The mistresses he’s had out-number the maggots in a deer’s corpse, he couldn’t identify the Holy Bible from a child’s drawings made in pools of mud, the cross he supposedly wears has become tarnished from lack of human touch.

Whatever. If he gets beheaded in the town’s square the man you’ve been betrothed to since the very second the doctor turned his nose up at your absence of a penis. You know very little about the Viking culture, their religion, their _gods_ , but you assume they’re smart enough to know killing a princess gains them nothing but a martyr for the opposite side.

The sound of your name pulls you from your disgusted internal monologue.

“And how old is this daughter?” The woman asks. Your father is now on the ground – not injured, just a coward.

“Old enough to wed,” he replies. He doesn’t seem scared anymore. You, though, tremble in fear.

“Then a truce,” the woman smiles brighter than the sun and her eyes gleam. “I will take the woman and we will leave your land. If you promise no contact, my people and I will not invade as long as I am ruler.”

“Okay,” your father agrees immediately. “I will allow my daughter to go with you for my country’s safety.”

Your eyes bulge as you realize what just happened.

_What the fuck_.

You have mere heartbeats to process the chaos your future has been thrown into before several men are storming into your room. To your surprise, the men don’t grab at you – they simply stand by the door to prevent you from leaving. You’re their captor, but at least they’re passive about it.

From behind them, the blonde woman from the square emerges. She smirks as her eyes trail your body from your bare feet to your sleep-mused hair.

“Congratulations, princess,” she tells you, playful tone floating through the air like fae. “You’ve saved your nation from the _savage beasts_ that are the Vikings.”

You’re allowed to pack one trunk – the woman, who introduces herself as Lagertha as you shove your mother’s locket deep into the pocket of your favorite winter coat - already knows your name, and soon her routine questions and vies for attention turn personal, intimate.

Nevertheless, your answers remain curt through the entire time you’re with her in your chambers.

“I heard your mother died when you were young. I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” she whispers in the darkness of night as you both lay in her temporary bed, a straw thing a few feet from your own plush amenities.

You don’t say anything back, forcing through the uncomfortable silence with purse lips.

A beat. You can hear Lagertha turn to face you as she speaks. “Do you miss her?”

You sigh, then nod. “Sometimes. I don’t really remember her. She died when I was pretty young, and she had a lot of kingdom-y stuff to attend to when she was alive.”

Another beat. Your breaths come out shaky, your attempts not to shed tears

“Do you have any siblings?” she tries to change the subject as she notices the tears welling up in your eyes and reflecting the bright half-moon.

“Six older sisters,” you tell her honestly. “All married off and living in foreign lands, like I was supposed to…”

The silence between you two is heavy, blanketing you heavier than the furs keeping the cold night air from your skin. Neither of you speak for a long time, unsure of how to proceed. It’s awkward, painfully so, when you’re shoved into a small ship and told to sit with a woman who had injured her ankle hunting a few hours prior to boarding the small boat.

You and her are silent most of the journey, the conversations you manage to get yourself to engage with short, choppy, impersonal. Similar situations happen with Lagertha each time she offers food, water, an extra fur, someone else to sit next to.

The first full sentence you speak is when you’re brought to Lagertha’s bed, the trunk carried by two of the most muscular women you’ve ever seen in your life.

It’s once they exit that the words leave your lips. “Are the women here warriors as well as the men?”

Lagertha laughs a little as she drinks from a gauntlet you don’t remember seeing before now. “Of course. They’re women, not frail babies.”

You don’t respond, simply looking around the room. Lagertha leaves you alone after that, allowing you to unpack your things and learn the map of the house of which you’ll be living.

The two of you don’t speak until dinner, an affair she keeps small for, it seems, your benefit. It’s just one of her sons – Bjorn, and his wife. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen the Vikings eat, nor is it the first time you’ve heard them speak in their native tongue, a language foreign to your ears. But, it is the first time you haven’t been able to hide yourself from such savagery.

They bite into their meats like bears tasting the first taste of flesh in months and their unintelligible babble rakes in your ears like rusty knives through hardened wood. All of their words seem angry, biting, even when they laugh or smile.

For the entirety of the meal Lagertha keeps her hand on your lower back, a gesture you believe (hope) is meant to comfort you.

The verbal exchanges between you two are scarce, especially since you’d insisted of sleeping in a different bed as your captor.

It’s about a week in this new, still-strange place when Lagertha approaches you as you hunt through your things for something, _anything_ to do. She can tell you’re bored, mind-numbingly so as you spend your days pacing her keep. It reminds her of a dog locked in a pen without straw or bones or rocks and far enough away from society they and their masters do not breathe the same breaths.

She seems to understand what you’re looking for, sitting on the bed. You’re kneeling on the floor, and you can feel her feet bump at your hip as she speaks.

“What did you back in your home country?” Lagertha asks you.

“Not much,” you admit. “Back home for me is…it’s quite different from here…” Even as you speak your native tongue, you struggle to find the right words. “Women don’t do much. _They_ , they all, they all _think_ that we’re weaker somehow, that we can’t do much. As a royal all I was permitted to do was learn to sew, cook. A servant once taught me some medicinal skills – so I studied those old books sometimes.”

Lagertha sees you struggling, and as she speaks she attempts to comfort you with a hand on your shoulder. “Would you like to continue those things?”

You inhale deeply, considering the question. Lagertha’s not a malicious woman – at least not to you. So far she’s been kind, welcoming; doesn’t seem like the type to deny you such basic commodities as the ones you would ask for. In hopes of not feeling the sharp pain of rejection, you respond with the polite passivity you’d had quite aggressively drilled into your vernacular. “It’d be a nice pastime, yes.”

Lagertha smiles, your eyes locking together. Hers are bright, playful, while yours remain stilled with fear. “You are quite small in your speech, princess. I hope you in time learn to be more upfront with yourself, your wants, your needs.”

You swallow at the thick knot in your throat, one that isn’t quite terrified but still shakes when she pushes a small strand of hair behind your hear. “It is improper for a lady to be so forceful.”

Lagertha simply laughs. Big, chesty, _head thrown back_ laughs. “Is that what they taught you? To be some meek little doll?” You nod meekly with small movements. “Then I hope you learn life is much different here.”

It’s the day after that you find some crude crafting supplies laid out onto your bed – some thick, blunt needles and furs and rough fabric and thread. It’s sweet, despite not being what you’re used to, despite not being the finer things the servants taught you with. No more brightly-colored silken thread and soft, thin fabric. Nonetheless, it is still a gift – and one you treasure.

Winter in this region comes much sooner, and much harsher, than you had expected. Of course, the locals giggled each time you shivered at a mere featherlight kiss of the wind, but even the seer couldn’t predict how poorly the fragile skin wrapping your body was able to withstand such cold.

It’s a few night falls into the deep season when you find yourself on the small bed just outside the kitchen, shaking so hard your teeth clack together and your very bones feel as if they are freezing. In the dead of this night is when Lagertha appears to take pity on you, calling for you across the homestead for you to join her in her bed.

You reluctantly you do, body shivering violently at the raw exposure to air.

Under the furs Lagertha’s body is warm, almost painfully so against your frigid flesh. If the queen notices you shaking against her, she doesn’t say anything about it.

Wordlessly, she curls herself around you, pulling you two together. It’s not an action that’s unwelcome, but it’s still one that makes a specific type of shive run up your spine. This sort of intimacy, especially between two women, was forbidden back home. To think of a maiden or one of your father’s servant bursting in to find you – little, _unmarried_ you - in the muscular arms of some woman who fights like a man, your heart quickens at the scandal it would bring. Just imagining the villagers, the people your father _rules_ over, having such ammunition would plunge your country, your nation, your people, into despair.

The woman wrapped around you senses your distress. “Are you okay, love?” she asks, voice low like she’s talking to your father’s dog – a small white thing that shakes every time it rains.

Your words barely reach above a whisper. “Just thinking of home.”

She _mmm_ s in a way that makes you think she knows you’re hiding something. “Good memories or bad?”

You pull away from her a little bit, trying to find purchase on the slick furs. “They’re not memories at all.”

Lagertha pulls you back to her, resting her chin on the top of your hair. “Let me help, love,” she whispers just over the shell of your ear. “Let me help you.”

Her rough fingertips, her scarred hands, they run over your skin with featherlight touches over your many skin blemishes inherited from your mother.

Still, you lay passively, not sure what to do. Your headmistresses over the years had described sex not just as an act between man and wife, but also something that will hurt, that will be quick, that will simply be to solidify an heir, then to strengthen the diplomatic capabilities of the family you’d be married off to. No matter your education, you can still feel the heat between your legs pool slightly faster than your trembling heart can convince you to stop.

Lagertha daintily pushes the two sides of the slit in your address apart, just enough to give her access to the side of your hip and upper thigh. Lightly, as if not to scare you, she places her calloused, scarred, battle-torn hand there. It’s nice, surprisingly enough, it’s nice to see her warmth there. “Have you ever been with a woman?” She asks. It’s not accusatory, rather inquisitive. A genuine question stemming from genuine interest.

You think of the time you kissed one of your lady’s maids when you were twelve and she was thirteen, of the time you snuck away under a table in the kitchen and palmed at the breasts of a kitchen maid when you were both sixteen. Each experience more intimidating than this one – most likely due to the lack of dread from the idea of your father or headmistress or anyone finding you in such a state of sin.

Lagertha’s teeth bite into the tender flesh of your neck, leaving marks there. You’re happy your thick hair covers such an intimate spot, but something inside you whispers to expose such skin to the murderous winter as to alert the fellow Kattegat residents of your newfound status as _lover_ rather than _captive._

Her fingers dip into your virgin heat with patience, the woman watching your face’s every movement as she works each digit into you. “Do you like that, princess?” she asks, voice deep and low. “Do you like the way I feel inside of you?”

You nod, unable to speak anything but high-pitched whines.

“Good,” she purrs. Soon she has three fingers working in and out of you, crooking them so that all you see is hot white with her thumb rubbing at the crest of your center so behind all that is stars. It’s not long before the hot coil in your lower intestine becomes too tight, too tight to bear and you’re screaming for her to keep going _don’t stop please my queen do not stop for anything in the world_ and she’s smiling into the base of your neck and nipping at your collarbones and telling you she wouldn’t let go of you for promise of Valhalla and suddenly-

Suddenly you’re both gasping and unable to breath, squeezing your eyes shut and keeping them locked on Lagertha’s form now over you with her hand driving into you, body relaxed and tense.

You collapse _(when did you sit up?)_ onto the furs with your chest expanding painfully. “ _Oh, God_ ,” you moan with the world still spinning around you.

“That’s not me,” Lagertha says with a smirk. “But I’ll happily take the compliment.”

You almost, _almost_ have the energy to laugh at her stupid joke, but instead you merely throw her a small smile and curl back into the warmth of her body. Part of you thinks that maybe, just maybe this is the start of a love you don’t have to fear.

**Author's Note:**

> my first vikings fic!! i adored this tv show so im happy to start writing for my favorite murderous queen


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